I’ve decided giving up things is the new taking up things. I’ve taken up study and the gym, now it’s time to give up alcohol, give up cigarettes, and give up the hedonistic days of first to third year. But not necessarily give up all hope. I don’t see the point of eradicating all semblance of a social life in the name of exams. While of course it’s never the best idea to spend every night getting trashed a week before your final exams, neither is it healthy to restrict yourself to fourty minutes of social interaction a day. So my new motto is “Everything in moderation, including moderation.” But what is strange is how easy it is to put your head down and relinquish the urge to have a cheeky pint on your way home from the library.
Maybe it’s because I’m in fourth year now and “The Fear” has really kicked in. Continuous assessment was introduced to scare the hell out of the wasters. But since Christmas there seems to be a general consensus that nobody goes out during the week anymore, and those five days are sacred for the library. So for now I’m living for the weekend, which adds both a feel of sophistication to my irregular outings, and a sense of foreboding that comes with the knowledge that this is the pattern my life will take from here on out.
So with this sacrifice in full swing, I have become much more demanding of the places I go to for leisure. As a non-native of Dublin, I know my time is running out here. While I may be working here next year, nothing is set in stone. So instead of talking about all the places I’ve never been and have always wanted to go, I’m making it there. Fair enough, this experiment has only lasted two weeks, but I’m making a good shot of it. No longer am I forced to suffer the indignity of wading through the dance floor of The New Palace, being bumped and grinded against my will. After one night of being stabbed repeatedly by the protruding hipbone of a sixteen year old hussy, I said to myself: enough.
So for a bit of class, a bit of a change, I took myself off to Howl at the Moon! It was free in, which is always a plus, and over 21s so there were minimal children wearing pleather. Then again, there were minimal people born past 1975. As I made my way to “The Zimmer Room” you can imagine the reservations running through my head. While I’m all for active elderly, putting a room they can dance in down two flights of stairs seems a little sadistic. But thankfully after a few hours (and several overpriced drinks) both the atmosphere and the number of students picked up. The dance floor that had previously been dominated by two drunken girls flailing their handbags (one of whom was, unfortunately, me) finally began to fill with a reasonable semblance of crowd. There was room to dance but it wasn’t deserted, and the music was mostly focused on songs had two rr’s in them. “Dirrty” and “Hot in Herre” got a particularly warm reception. I would like to take this opportunity to include a disclaimer that I know nothing about ‘cool’ music, so if you ask me if I’ve heard the new Toddla T remix I’ll probably reply that I hate to babysit. Therefore I’m coming at this from an unbiased angle.
After the mild success of Howl I began to pick up enthusiasm. I plotted where my next adventure would take me, and inspiration soon came in the form of a girl’s night out to Whelan’s. The night was planned with military precision; I was barely able restrain myself from laminating the timetable. We started at the Pav, as usual, which ensured cheap drinks. It also ensured that the rest of the plan was completely screwed. After a cheeky burger (it’s better to stagger the night’s indulgences) we made our way to Whelan’s, those too cheap to pay for a taxi on frozen foot. Our first mistake was to separate. As I stood in the queue and learned it was €10 in my two companions muttered something about trying the palace and faded into the night. I got in about 12.45am and spent the next 20 minutes wandering about the split-level club trying to find the others, muttering to myself that it didn’t look like Whelan’s pub or the Village, both of which I’d been to before. It was only the next day that I was told we were in some sort of mystery club next door to Whelan’s. Whether or not they’re related remains to be seen. In any case, I was on flying form after the savvy smuggling in of my pre-made gin and tonic, and decided this place was rife for making mates. To my delight the crowd was infinitely more amiable than I’m used to, and I had some stellar conversations with Julian the Rasta and Martina the Call-Centre Worker. I was bought a gin and tonic by a random nice man and I reconnected with my rock-filled adolescence on the dance floor. My only reservation was the mosh pit that formed for The White Stripes, and the curiously cool temperature of the main dance room. It bordered on icy. I’m not sure if that was to encourage people to huddle for warmth, drink more alcohol, or just give even the sweatiest man the opportunity to find love.
I only had the chance to stay an hour before being pulled to Roma II, but it was definitely worth it. And as for the club, it wasn’t bad at all. I was afraid both places would be more subdued than the usual college haunts but I was pleasantly surprised. While I usually have a good time wherever friends, dancing and alcohol are involved, the friendly strangers in Whelan’s really made a difference. And although Howl might have a bit of a reputation for being more business than pleasure, the free entrance and proximity to college were winners in my mind. I’ll definitely be back to both.
So for now I look forward to the weekend, giving myself a well-deserved break from studious monotony. I am aware that this won’t last forever and at some stage I’ll be forced to devote all seven days to study, which will mean giving up Saturday hangover pizza and internet TV. But for now I’m enjoying trying out all the places I always wanted to go, and relishing the lack of stiletto scars on my delicate feet.
Christ, I’m getting old.
